“One-twenty, going once—”

"No." She thought, but the word didn't form in her mouth.

Ashra’s breath hitched. Vorr Callen’s reputation was carved into every stable wall from the Low Barrens to the Froststep Cities. A butcher. A man who smiled as he carved legends into haunches and steaks.

But then—he didn’t smile.

Instead, Vorr leaned in toward the auctioneer’s dais and said something. The auctioneer nodded and struck the gavel.

“Sold! Lot 43, to Master Callen. Delivery to be arranged.”

Ashra stiffened as Vorr approached, his heavy boots stirring dust from the arena floor.

“Before you curse me, girl,” Vorr rumbled, “know this. I’m not here for slaughter.”

Ashra narrowed her eyes. “Liar. Everyone knows—”

“I bought him for my son.”

That stopped her.

“My boy turns sixteen next moon,” Vorr continued. “He’s been sick. He’ll never ride the Mechknights. But he’s studied them. Worships them. I promised him a unicorn, and not some half-lame gelding from the Rust Yards. A real one. A beauty.”

Ashra’s lips parted, words failing.

“I’m not here to butcher him.” Vorr’s eyes softened just a fraction. “I’m trying to give my boy something... something that might keep him wanting to stay.”

Stay? She knew that tone. It was the tone of parents whose children had started speaking of the Crossing. Of leaving for the Blightwastes. Of taking the long walk into the fog.

Ashra swallowed hard. The meat merchant wasn’t here as a butcher. He was here as a desperate father.

Solace nudged her hip gently, as if sensing the shift.

But could she trust him?

-------

Track’s Tacos—Sunset Rush

Blood-red uni steaks hissed on the grill, juices flaring up in bursts of fragrant smoke. The meat—cut from retired racers and war-class unicorns—seared to a deep, dark brown, the fat caramelizing around the edges.

Beside the flames, purplecado mash rested in chilled ceramic bowls. The rich, nutty flesh smashed smooth, swirled with gooseberry salsa—sweet and sour, flecked with vivid green chile.

At Track’s, the uni wrap supreme was legend. Massive multi-grain flatbreads folded around piles of coarsely ground steak, purplecado, salsa, and crispwater greens. It wasn’t just food—it was a badge. You ate at Track’s, you belonged to the working class of Cintar. Ranchers, guild mechanics, and freeborn Mechknight apprentices alike lined up before sunset.

The brave few ordered the bagel tartare: raw uni slices layered like lox over cream cheese bagels, crowned with black salt and pickled fern hearts. Risky—but exquisite.

And then there was the bone broth.

Sold by the pint or by the barrel, customers gripped steaming cups as the evening chill rolled down from the southern dunes. Unicorn marrow was said to fortify the blood, sharpen the mind, and make a man—or woman—ready for the brutal grind of tomorrow.

Track’s wasn’t just a taco stand.

It was tradition.

It was survival.

It was home.